


My memories of you

by Kuro_Ko



Series: Maybe, in a different life [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Epistolary, F/F, Fluff, I made too many maps for this, I swear they are going to be together, Poetry, Slow Burn, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, epistolary friendship, epistolary love, heck poetry wind, lots of mentions to the wind, sorta - Freeform, the heavy lifting Intsys didn't do, they are lesbians your honor, what do you mean this can't be used as therapy?, why does this feel as a treatise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27849054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuro_Ko/pseuds/Kuro_Ko
Summary: Ingrid has returned to Galatea after the war, five years that have barely changed the surface of her home. As the new Count there's so much she needs to do and engage to change the land for the better.Ingrid isn't a stateswoman.Ingrid isn't a strategist.Ingrid isn't a knight.But for those who she loves, she will try.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Series: Maybe, in a different life [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011939
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	My memories of you

**Author's Note:**

> I am very proud of the tags for this one. I recommend you read them before diving into this work, so you're aware of what's to come.
> 
> The slow burn is intended to take its time on this one, and I'm not joking when I talked about the maps... yet, the major component will be angst, of course.
> 
> Angst and fluff as Mercedes and Ingrid deal with their own inner demons, heal old wounds, and rediscover themselves once more.
> 
> I hope you like this first chapter and, if you did, you can find me in [twitter](https://twitter.com/KuroKR_) for more queer content!

When Ingrid looks at the mirror, she recognizes herself.

Despite the changes, despite the titles.

Despite the seasons.

Ingrid recognizes herself. She sees a nimble woman wearing white riding pants and a buttoned-up simple shirt with a mandarin collar. The Galatea blazon is a golden brooch in her chest and the Adrestrian Empire Eagle in metal is in her right cuff. A tight belt around her waist that could carry a sword if needed. Ingrid doesn’t unless she leaves the manor into official business.

She sees the Count of Galatea, the poor county that has managed to survive. Her old room is still as sober as she left it years ago, the wooden floor tables clear but worn, the walls bare but sturdy. The three stories house, like her family, is resilient. Ingrid didn’t take the big suite for the head of the family when she assumed the administration of her house. Ingrid didn’t send her siblings away to serve petty jobs that wouldn’t threaten her position. She didn’t shake a piece of paper at their faces to show how legitimate it was her power. 

Ingrid rolled up her sleeves instead and worked tirelessly into reforming her house and land.

A knock on her door makes her look away from the mirror, she is late for breakfast and that won’t do. There’s still so much to do, paperwork waits for her in her study, a neat pile she will work through hoping to find a letter from her comrades. Ingrid likes Dorothea’s letters the most, the woman has an uncanny skill to hide puns and teases into legal and official documents.

“Sis! Time for breakfast!” She hears and Ingrid can see the smile on Yrsa’s face, her hair blonde as hers and her eyes a mix of amber and brown like their father’s. Ingrid's boots echo each step as she opens the door and smiles looking at her little sister. 

It hasn’t been easy.

Life never is.

Her father wasn’t a bad Count, he kept Galatea in order and just above the water through the war. Ingrid found in her home the problems and struggles she had witnessed many times before. The conflicts in the border with Charon and the ore related market where money circulated and where the law was blurry. The struggles on the mainland where people just were too exposed to live comfortably. 

Their table has a decent variety of dishes scattered for what’s Ingrid’s biggest meal of the day.

She will need them if she intends to stay most of the day in her study going through her correspondence with the Emperor in her request of aid for the incoming winter. She needs to go through Linhardt’s recommendations again and to prepare a proper request to Lysithea and her resources to review and reform Galatea roads. The mage has to be one to at least know how to point her in the right direction.

Ingrid knows she has barely scratched the surface and yet so many problems require her attention.

She can only hope her former comrades in arms will be able to lend her a hand to push forward her county, so left behind.

“Ingrid, dear,” her father is tired, she sees it in the bags under his eyes and in the way his hair is more silver than blonde now. She had been taken aback when she saw him for the first time after five years.

Even his eyes had seemed tired that day. He had smiled with no joy but hugged her and, for a precious second, Ingrid had been in his arms the naive girl that knew nothing of true pain and loss.

“Yes, father?” Spring and summer made their way and autumn is upon them once more. Ingrid thought for a second he would rest when she took control of the state matters of Galatea. She was wrong, she knows that now.

Ingrid fears she will never stop learning and it’s both encouraging and terrifying.

“Today at dawn some emissaries from Enbarr arrived,” he looks at her, and the look in his eyes judges her for what she’s been actively doing the last months. “They are waiting for you.” Ingrid knows that is for naught trying to convince her father to wake her up when emissaries arrive. Her brother drinks next to her a cup of tea and lets go of it with a sigh.

Ingrid supposes he understands, but they haven’t talked enough to actually bond over it. She has, in a sense, just taken his heritage out of his hands. Leif was the one in line to be the head of the house before the war was over. Their father was to marry off Ingrid and get money out of that wedding, her crest the best pawn the family had had in years. He was to instruct her brother, and make sure their little sister was properly educated.

Everything has changed, however. Is that good, is that bad?

They haven’t talked about it.

Ingrid doesn’t know yet, she only knows that she isn’t the knight she thought she could be. She only knows that she never dreamed to be in the position she is in right now and yet she has to try to do her very best as it’s her own doing the one that landed her there. Even if that means taking all the responsibilities her father used to manage before and the dreams of her brother who had been learning to manage a county that can barely remain independent by itself.

Her father looks at her, waiting for an answer, and she manages to nod while swallowing a generous mouthful of scrambled eggs and bread. It is her place to decide how to greet them and how to make them wait, not his. He, however, seems to have a hard time letting go of his authority despite the time she has already been the Count.

Ingrid knows it hasn’t been that long since she is the Count and deep in her heart she appreciates his worries and help. Arne had been passive and docile when she arrived, they had been sitting at that very table, as her father had deemed necessary for the family to eat together once more before whatever Ingrid carried in her Adrestrian general uniform disrupted their peace. Before Ingrid arrived as what she truly was, the daughter who had fought against her king out of love of her homeland and ideals of freedom for everybody, out of awe and respect to the Emperor she deemed fit to be her liege.

For an hour they could, however, enjoy a simple meal as they had done years ago and she was only Ingrid, eating alongside her father and siblings and the old teases and jests felt new in their voices once more.

It had been that very same table when she had handed her father the Emperor’s ordinance and had announced to them that she was the new count of Galatea and that she sincerely expected and requested their help to rule the land the best for their people.

She had been happy at the moment that silences were somewhat something she had gotten used to.

“Sis, will you spar with us this afternoon?” Yrsa looks at her and her eyes are desperate for a yes. The youngest of the siblings has the ferocity and wilderness of a young cougar that owns the world they live in. Ingrid can but smile and nod.

She loves her and sparring is something that always manages to calm her down.

“Of course.”

Autumn, cold and yet still sunny, starts the countdown for them to fill their food reserves and prepare for the cold and merciless winter that approaches. Ingrid has on top of her desk the last letters from Enbarr, promising documents that talk about food aid big enough for Galatea to make it to the next spring where, with some luck, no main conflicts would arise and cause the Galatea people to leave their harvest to favor their weapons. Ingrid hopes the day will arrive where she can dedicate her efforts solely to her training instead of paperwork.

But in the new world they are trying to create, a paper could have a more everlasting value than a blade.

Ingrid speeds up through her breakfast and leaves the table in a rush, the Adrestrian emissaries have waited long enough and the sooner she faces them, the sooner she can keep going through her daily tasks. Leif sees her go with a wave of his hand and a smile that is more frequent now, it warms her. Dealing with a resentful sibling is something that would do good to no one. The survival of their county is on the line if Ingrid isn’t able to feed them.

How bitter is it to have to battle hunger itself after she had been part of an army that had struck down a god?

The manor, bare and small, is cozy enough for the emissaries to be comfortable in the living room where some of the best works of art are exhibited for important guests. None of them are truly valuable, her family has slowly relinquished their treasures to keep alive through the hard times, but they are pleasant to look at.

A big portrait of her mother is still hung there, the most recent artwork in the room and one Ingrid feels conflicted about. She is the living image of the lady of Galatea who died before she could see her children grow and mature. She shakes her head and breathes in deep before opening the door, sporting the most calm face she can to greet her guests and, maybe, saviors.

Ingrid has no advantage to negotiate with them and this is a battlefield she isn’t used to.

“Ingrid, darling!” Dorothea hugs her and suddenly her eyes are covered by the bright, rich brown of her friend’s hair. “I’m so glad to see you again!” Dorothea squeezes her hard, but Ingrid is used to so much more worse that she just smiles and hugs her friend back, holding her with care and love.

“Dorothea! I didn’t expect you to come but I’m so happy you are here!” Ingrid’s eyes remain close for a second, lost in the embrace and the warmth her friend evokes, feeling how her strength is back just by feeling the one she has fought alongside and laughed alongside through a war that bonded them together instead of tearing them apart.

“Oh, great, you’re here. I wanted to nap but Dorothea wouldn’t allow me.” Ingrid looks over Dorothea’s shoulder and sees Linhardt lounging on the couch, his mouth open in a full yawn she’s seen so many times.

“Linhardt! Haven’t you been escorted to the guest rooms? You don’t need to nap on the couch,” Ingrid lets go of Dorothea and smiles at him, shaking his hand strong enough to wake him up.

“They did, however, Dorothea insisted we waited for you here.” Linhardt looks at her companion and she winks at him. “In any case, let’s get down to business so you can show me your library and I can get a pillow, shall we?”

“Of course! Come this way.” She’s more than happy to leave the room and the green eyes of her mother looking their way. Ingrid feels the spring in her strides and the smile in her face, she hasn’t seen any of the Black Eagles since she returned to Galatea. They have exchanged letters of course, and Ingrid keeps them in the first drawer of her desk.

All of them.

 _Almost_ all of them.

There are letters she prefers to keep in her night table, close to her every time the night closes and she can stop for a second being a Count to be Ingrid once more. Some of them are worn by the times her hands have folded and unfolded them, the ink blurred where she has held them too tight, the words however fresh and new just as they were when they arrived.

“I trust you come for my request to the Emperor, right?” Ingrid leads the way, talking over her shoulder as her legs carry her with levity through two stories to get to her study, on the last floor of the house. Linhardt and Dorothea follow behind, their breathing laborious by the last flight of stairs.

“Indeed… Well, I came to discuss that and see a friend. Linhardt here said he wanted to see the situation by himself to determine what’s actually needed.” Dorothea pants, her right hand on the railing and her left vaguely gesturing to Linhardt behind her.

“That’s good. I can take you to the fields nearby the city and further too, if you have more than a day to spare we can go to the mainland where the situation is severe…” Ingrid opens the door and the study is basked in the soft light of the autumn sun that comes through a big window at their left. The room is a small one, but it’s covered in papers and books on the floor, a board with maps of Faerghus, Fódlan and Galatea, weapons that are stashed with no order in a corner and a bast desk that faces the entrance, Luin behind it easy to grab if Ingrid ever feels the need to. Dorothea cocks an eyebrow but keeps her impressions of the room to herself. Linhardt follows behind and looks at the maps with a keen eye, ignoring the mess that reigns in the room.

“We’re staying three days before going back. We wouldn’t want to be cut off from Adrestria by the snow just because we idled,” he says, walking to the board and examining the maps with a hand in his chin. “Do you mind if I take a closer look at these? I believe they are better updated that the ones in Enbarr.”

“Go ahead. Dorothea and I can discuss the relief request in the meantime,” Ingrid grants, shrugging as she says so. Dorothea shakes her head and walks to the desk, eyeing the documents on top and recognizing her own handwriting in them.

“You sounded pretty desperate in your last letter, darling”

“I am desperate, we don’t have enough food to make it through winter. Galatea is the smallest of counties and by far the poorest. This year crops have been extremely poor and our commerce with Charon harsher than usual. Most of Faerghus is in the same situation, but…” Ingrid bits her lip as she thinks her next words carefully, Dorothea is still looking at the letters on her desk and her expression doesn’t show what she is thinking. “Look, there’s a lot of work to be done still. The status of the county was worse than I expected. I believe I can turn this around but I don’t have enough time to do so before winter arrives.”

“Most of Fódlan is in the exact same position.” Linhardt mumbles from the other side of the room, still looking at the maps. Dorothea sighs when he says so and massages her temples.

Ingrid feels how the joy of seeing them chills as the realization makes a pit at the bottom of her stomach.

“He’s right… Gronder field is the breadbasket of the continent, you know. War hasn’t been kind to it, this year harvest is barely enough to feed Adrestrian territory and almost all of the Faerghus territories have requested aid to make it through this winter.” Dorothea paces around, her arms crossed as she speaks, laying the situation bare before Ingrid. “Edelgard has been working non-stop to make sure nobody goes hungry, but sacrifices will need to be made in order to assure our survival...”

“What do you mean? Are we to leave people to die out of starvation?” And her words hide the sharp edge of a blade. How can they? How can they turn a blind eye to the people that suffer? Ingrid can’t choose who would live and who would die, not out of starvation that is. Her snarl, unknown to her, is met with a tired yet soft look from Dorothea.

Why hasn’t Ingrid seen how tired Dorothea looks despite her usual cheerfulness?

“Of course not, Ingrid, but we aren’t going to be able to deliver all the help you may have wanted…” Dorothea’s smile is sincere and soft. Ingrid realizes how her own demeanor has changed into a demanding one and takes control of herself again, ashamed of how her emotions still can get the best of her.

“I apologize. I’m the one asking for help from Enbarr and her Majesty,” she says and she means it. This aid will not come for free, she’s bound to pay a price for it, maybe not today, not tomorrow, not in ten years.

But one day, when Edelgard calls, she is sworn to answer just for what the Emperor is about to do for her county.

“We need to work out the details for the transportation, but… how do your people feel about bread and fish?”

Ingrid blinks.

“...fish?”

* * *

It has to be Byleth’s idea, Ingrid is sure. She’s also sure that even as unorthodox as it seems, it is brilliant and that she knows better than doubting their genius strategist and their professor. She has never let them down.

She will not start now, it seems.

Ingrid picks up one of the salted, fermented fish and tries it. The flavor stings in her tongue and leaves a strange aftertaste in her paladar, but it isn’t bad.

It isn’t good either.

“The professor…?” Ingrid asks, gesturing at the wooden box filled with the weird-looking meat she has never seen before.

“And Petra, this was caught in Brigid’s shores.A third of the regular army from Envarr has been working day and night salting fish. Soldiers can do that as well it seems," she jokes. "The archipelago is mostly untouched after the war and the Queen offered to lend us a hand,” Dorothea’s wink is as playful as always, even when she’s wearing gloves, a scarf, and an extra thick hat. Ingrid cocks an eyebrow. Dorothea shouldn’t be one to spend a winter in Faerghus, she thinks.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you aren’t there right now.” Ingrid regards the box before putting the lid on top of it again. It’s a small sample and it’s a plan as well, Galatea is in no position to refuse the help. A chain of favors, she thinks, as she makes sure that the lid is properly set on the box.

Brigid has just saved Fódlan and Edelgard will pay them with something valuable, in return Edelgard will save her count and Ingrid will pay with her loyalty.

Diplomacy is a pain and Ingrid can’t even wince at it.

“I just couldn’t leave this matter to somebody else now, could I?” Dorothea winks at her and Linhardt next to her manages to smile, his eyes are warm and intelligent. Ingrid suspects there are more surprises waiting for her this day. “Lin here couldn’t either. He’s been surprisingly pro-active regarding the whole agriculture business!”

“Dorothea, please, I’m right here,” Linhardt doesn’t seem upset, his demeanor the same and his arms still crossed. “But, she’s right, Ingrid. Edelgard asked me to solve this problem and it has caught my interest… despite it’s rather troublesome.”

“Right, I owe you to take you around for a look.” Ingrid looks around, at the pegasi that pastured at their leisure in the fields nearby. Those grasslands are soon to disappear under the first snow of the year and would not reappear until spring next year when the sun was up again enough time to melt it away. Their mounts, then, will browse whatever they can salvage from the frigid, hard soil under their hooves. That’s the way it has been for centuries.

Ingrid thinks it’s time they put a stop to that.

She brings her thumb and index to her mouth and whistles long and high sure that Freya will come without fail to her call. They are friends and have trusted each other their lives for more than a decade already. Linhardt cocks an eyebrow and his face contorts the moment he realizes what Ingrid intends.

Dorothea starts laughing next to him, her left shoulder against the wagon they brought with them, more like a friend who is enjoying the time she has with her loved ones instead of an official emissary of the Emperor of the continent. The sun at noon is kind, shy even, when it makes it’s shortening way through the sky in the Galatea county and the manor in front of them is still welcoming and clean, despite lacking most of the regalia a noble’s house usually sports.

With a joyful neigh, Freya descends next to Ingrid, nuzzling her face and the pristine white of her face is just an omen of the snow that’s to come. Ingrid pats her strong neck and looks at Linhardt, her eyes telling the whole story.

He sighs and massages his temples, but he is well aware that he’s about to fight a battle he can’t win.

“Can’t we do this in a less adventurous way? A wagon, for example?” He vaguely gestures to the one they have been standing by, the one with samples and supplies they brought alongside their horses and another wagon for passengers if it was needed.

“And risking you napping through it? No way. Besides, you don’t have that much time. Freya can take us to Brandl Colonia in no time and all the fields around, those are by far the most fertile in Galatea.” Ingrid hops on her pegasus, grabbing her mane firmly and using her knees to keep in position before offering Linhardt a hand so he can sit behind her, right where the wings spread from. If he is to lose his balance and fall, the wings will keep him safe enough time for Ingrid to grab him. Freya turns around, testing her wings and her hooves before her rider orders them to jump into the sky and yet again make it their home. Ingrid feels her blood running and the thrill of the flight in her belly. She smiles and breathes in, knowing exactly what’s to come and delighting herself in every second of it.

Her riding pants and her black boots, the sword she had absently minded hung to her waist before they left the house, everything she wears and she is calling for the sky. Everything in her calls for a breath of freedom and a breeze of the cerulean that will engulf them once they are up riding the winds as nobody else can.

Dorothea’s smile is just a mirror of hers. Ingrid looks at her and then at the manor. Her family will honor tradition and will treat Dorothea in the best possible way, as they are her valued guests.

“I believe my sister will keep you company, she’s been pecking through the windows this entire time.”

“I see her,” Dorothea wiggles her fingers in a playful wave at the manor and even if they can’t hear her, they can see how Yrsa gasps and disappears from their view. “I will start working on that document to get the food aid around, we can work the fine details later,” Dorothea smirks and adds “please don’t let him fall and die, Edie and Caspar wouldn’t be pleased.”

“You can count on it,” Ingrid swears and with a spur they are off the ground, picking altitude and velocity in seconds as Freya’s strong wings make them soar. Linhardt yelps and holds thigh to her, muttering something under his breath Ingrid can’t quite catch.

“Honestly, only you would go out flying with no saddle and an extra passenger,” he yells so she can hear him over the wind that whistles in their ears. Ingrid laughs out loud, happy that Linhardt is the one she is carrying and not Ferdinand with his fixed ideas of what a noble should or shouldn’t do.

She is quite sure that this is an activity nobles wouldn’t normally engage in. But now nobles aren’t anything else than a liability from the past, aren’t they? Neither Linhardt or Ingrid will stop to think what a noble should or should not anymore.

“Do I need to remind you that I’m used to fighting on Freya’s back holding a spear and a shield? I don’t quite need my hands to steer her around,” and, to demonstrate it, she presses with her left knee softly, Freya takes a wide, calculated turn to the left and they tilt with her slightly as the winged mount completes a huge circle in the sky. The man mumbles something and Ingrid decides that her point was more than clear. She steers her mount south, toward the biggest city in Galatea near the manor and the border with Charon.

The Colonia that grew and grew into a city by itself and that concentrated most of Galatea’s trade and power. It is a post for merchants, travelers and troops alike. All things considered, it’s size is impressive for a county with little less than five hundred thousand people. From the sky they can see the city stretching through the land, passing the bridge in the river that serves as a natural border in between counties and into Galatea itself, the mainland that will soon be a frigid wasteland with little villas and towns scattered around.

Even from his position, Linhardt can see how disorganized the roads are and the long queues that horses and wagons form to enter the city streets. Brandl Colonia isn’t a citadel and no walls are there to prevent the flow of people and vehicles. It shouldn’t be that difficult to move around. And yet it is.

He remembers exactly how long it was the detour they took to arrive at Galatea’s state and still it was faster than going through the city they were told. He keeps a strong hold on Ingrid’s shirt as he examines the ground beneath them and the buildings and people that grow bigger as Ingrid coaxes her pegasus to fly lower.

She can't see his grimace, but can imagine it nonetheless.

Compared to Enbarr’s bustling, intricate and yet organized streets or Derdriu’s endless and efficient markets, this is pure chaos.

Ingrid knows this will soon be on her list of priorities. Ingrid knows that she will have to deal with this and redesign a city that has grown without a master and no plan. Her letter to Lysithea still sits idle, incomplete, on her desk.

Ingrid knows she isn’t qualified for this. She isn’t a ruler, she isn’t a stateswoman, she isn’t a knight.

Ingrid, however, is the Count and it doesn’t matter what she feels or what she is, it is her responsibility to take care of this.

They circle the city a couple of times in silence, Freya’s strong wings cruising through the sky with ease, before Ingrid changes their direction once more into the mainland, to the poor and yet crucial fields that stretch toward the river and crow around stone wells. Narrow roads made by the incessant strides of farmers connect them in a net that from the sky looks similar to blood vessels, efficient and properly maintained. So different to what they have seen in the city.

“Ingrid, let’s land for a bit,” Linhardt requests and Ingrid complies quickly, her synchronization with Freya impeccable when they touch ground delicately. She hops down, her right leg going over her mount’s neck in a swift movement and landing strong on her feet before helping Lindhart down. He stumbles, his knees and legs unused to riding the winds, but he manages to steady himself in less than a second, his eyes occupied already in the fields and the few farmers that eye them curiously.

Those eyes would be hostile if it wasn’t that they recognized Ingrid’s authority by a single glance.

They still regard them warily. Changes are not easy neither to accept or implement.

She waves at them and they bow in return, it doesn’t feel right yet Ingrid knows it’s the best answer she can wait for them. Her friend next to her has kneeled and it’s looking at the soil under his feet, his eyes harboring a look that Ingrid has seen before. Linhardt’s brain is working his magic, mechanism and thoughts that will render details and solutions nobody else has seen before.

Or, at least, that’s what Ingrid hopes.

Freya shakes behind them and nuzzles her again, Ingrid pets her snout absentmindedly, her attention in Linhardt and her hopes in what he could discover from Galatea soil.

Anything that can feed her people when the winters are too rough and springs too short. Anything when the seasons were cruel and their fate unknown.

Fragile.

“Let’s go, take me further east,” Linhardt asks, straightening up, not looking at her but the fields that unfolded before them.

Ingrid can only nod and comply, her fists clenched. Her destiny in other’s hands once more.

* * *

The weight of the world feels heavy in her body, crushing her lungs and bruising her shoulders. A burden that is heavier than her armor when riding the winds of battle, a burden that is crueler than the cries of pain and grief when her lance opened a path for the Emperor to follow, a burden that is stronger than the dented steel in her armor that appressed her ribs and crushed her nimb body.

The weight of the world is heavy in her body and wears her down as she looks at the wall in her room, sitting in a chair that is not comfortable enough for her to stay there and rubs her face as the worries that follow her bite at her ankles and laugh over her shoulders reminding her that they will be there tomorrow.

And the day after tomorrow.

They will follow her until the day she can no longer think and her final resting frees her from them.

Linhardt’s appreciation hadn’t been hopeful, not horrible either, but the fact that the county could produce a limited amount of crops per year was worrying. More so when he said that even with advanced technology and new techniques, there was just so much they could do.

It isn’t a good start for her year as Count, yet it is what she’s got.

It’s not only that, she knows. She’s seen more and more of Galatea and she worries. All the changes she thought she could have some time before dealing with seem more and more pressing. The night outside is cold and pitch black, its silence doesn’t hold answers for her, but spurs the memories she’s kept at bay through the day. Little moments that the presence of her friends has resurfaced and now find their way to her eyes, in the dead of a night that finds her alone in a room that has seen her grow and change.

Ingrid sighs and stands up, in the first drawer of her night table she keeps the letters Mercedes has sent her since they said goodbye. There are not many, as it has been but a couple of months and just a season and a little more since they parted. Ingrid, however, expected not to receive any from her. The letters in her hands are short and sometimes cold, but they are hers and she will take them to her heart no matter what.

At the light of a couple of candles that she feels guilty keeping alight, Ingrid reads those letters over and over again, her own sacred texts she looks solace in when the weight of the world is too much to bear, like today.

_Ingrid,_

_Gautier is just as I remember it, green and dark and cold. Sylvain laughed and said that winter will be worse but that spring will be beautiful. It reminds me of home. Weird, isn’t it? All things considered, I spent most of my childhood in the Empire, yet it doesn’t feel like home._

_Worry not about your friend, you know Sylvain has a good heart despite how his mouth usually doesn’t show it. I’m sure he will be great for the Margravate of Gautier and a remembered Margrave too. I will help however I can to keep his head in the right place._

_Mercedes._

The short letter in her hands, folded and unfolded so many times and blured by her fingers that trembled when she opened it for the first time, now rests as the first in the neat pile she will create as Ingrid goes through them once more. Her eyes are thorough but not eager anymore when she reads through the second letter, the one that arrived just before the Blue Sea Moon ended and the news regarding the crops in the fields were dark ones.

_Ingrid,_

_It’s a relief to hear that your father relinquished his title without much of a fuss. He always seemed a reasonable man by what you told me, it shows once more, it seems._

_I’m doing fine, thank you for worrying. Sylvain is very permissive regarding my movements and he’s allowed me to use the chapel of the manor as I see fit. Lady Rhea might be gone, but praying to the goddess still gives me peace in a sense. Felix visited some days ago, he mentioned you have been too busy to take his offer for a visit to Fraldarius, try to rest properly, you are one to overwork yourself._

_Mercedes._

It still baffles Ingrid how the words in the paper talked about self-deprecation, about what had been lost and yet asking her to take care of herself. That is Mercedes, however, she knows. Mercedes, the one to worry about everybody else before herself, the one able to absolutely destroy somebody with her keen and clever words, with pure wit and an impossibly beautiful smile.

And capable of bringing from the edge of death a soldier that claimed for her favors when the battlefield had been adverse.

Ingrid reads the letter once more and, once more, she feels the anger in Mercedes’s words. Anger that will remain there until the ink fades and the paper disintegrates through time and still it will be a sentiment her heart would have harbored and she had been right to do so. Ingrid sometimes feels the same toward her. In the moment she had been taken aback, she had feared her letters and her presence, her very existence, wasn’t welcomed by Mercedes.

Would it be wrong if Mercedes felt that way?

That night Ingrid had told herself that it wouldn’t have been wrong.

Alongside that letter, however, she had received one from Sylvain, not the Margrave Gautier, but her friend Sylvain. Besides teasing her as he usually did, he said that Mercedes had seemed down to him, but that she should keep reaching out to her.

Keep reaching out to her.

Ingrid doubted at the moment, but tried once more.

She tried as she still does now.

It is a bitter, cold reminder of the past they share and intertwines their stories as much as their love once did.

Just as much.

Ingrid leaves the second letter and goes for the third, maybe the one she’s read the most.

_Ingrid,_

_The Albinean wind is cold and sharp. It reminds me of the long nights in Fhirdiad when we stayed until morning studying with Annie. Our limbs would grow stiff and numb after hunching over books for hours. Did I tell you that, already? I think I did._

_Five years is long enough to forget, isn’t it?_

_Do you remember those days before the war? I feel sometimes that we accepted war so easily into our lives... it scares me._

_I pray to the goddess to never be that naive ever again._

_Sylvain is worried about the next winter, even if he doesn’t say so, he is. He let me help with the orphanage and open dining halls. There are many refugees coming from Fhirdiad. I heard that Hubert and Ferdinand are there, trying to rebuild enough before the worst of winter arrives._

_Be careful._

_Mercedes._

“Be careful” that’s something Ingrid should tell Mercedes instead. Her mind supplies her with hundreds of ideas and images, of words she wishes to tell Mercedes and yet she doesn't have the right to do so. Ingrid looks at the words without seeing them, the black ink on white paper, the handwriting careful, neat, meticulous.

Pretty.

She looks at it and doesn’t read the words, she doesn’t see them.

In her mind, she can only see Mercedes writing these letters to her, taking a moment of her time and her day to remind Ingrid that she is still something to her.

Somebody worth spending time on.

Ingrid stands up from her bed where she had taken a seat and goes to the window. The blinds are open as they use to through spring and summer, she won’t close them until the first snow falls on them, starting the winter they all fear in a way or another. She is well aware that a bad year, even a bad season, can mean the end of their peace and the raising in arms of people that would demand answers she doesn’t have.

It can mean the start of a new war she isn’t willing to fight.

The resolution in herself steels itself, her will sharpening, her mind made.

She is to bring peace after so much suffering and blood spilled.

She is to bring peace for those who seek it. Ingrid Brandl Galatea will look up after the ones who claim for help and shelter in Galatea count.

She may not be a knight, she may not be a stateswoman, she may not be a strategist.

But she’s the Count and she will not let them down.

* * *

Goodbyes are always bittersweet, even when they are meant to be just temporary.

Her friends are gone, leaving behind a promise and a signed document that’s the very salvation for Galatea. Enough food to provide for what the half a million people will lack soon enough. Dorothea promised the convey in a couple of weeks and soldiers as well to help to distribute rations. That won’t do, she knows. People will not look gently upon Adrestrian soldiers handing them weird food. Ingrid will keep the soldiers by the manor or in Colonia, indoors where they can’t be seen and help sorting out packages to deliver to the remote regions mainland and towards the steep cliffs that separate the count from the sea.

No, she herself and her pegasus riders will take care of the matter. Her battalion has been stationed in Galatea long enough to move around without being eyed. Edelgard sent them with a simple message after Ingrid had left, they were hers to command. Ingrid is a Count, yes, but for the Emperor she is as well a general under her reign.

The pegasus riders can deliver food quickly enough and talk with her authority to the local mayors and elders in each village. She can go and deliver the rations herself to the main towns and cities, following the Oghma mountains through the line of roads that scatter there as a net nobody had taken care of planning.

There are details to polish still. Edelgard had a strange yet reasonable request for the best pegasus stallions she could spare for next spring. The riders under her command had talked so much about the Galatea race of pegasi and their virtues that the Emperor herself had taken a quick note into breeding them in Enbarr to provide her army with the best she could find. Ingrid looks at the document she’s just signed where the conditions, as eccentric as they might be, are written.

It looks even derisory, but she suspects politics and deals are stranger than she thought at first.

Ingrid takes the next document and skims through it quickly, her eyes tired and her muscles aching for some training, her hands ready to hold a lance instead of a quill.

Soon, soon she will be done with all of this and will take Yrsa’s offer once more to spar.

Soon.

The door opens with a loud bang and her father storms in, a shocked look on his face.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

Her first instinct is to grab Luin and stand her ground. She doesn’t however.

Not yet at least.

“Please tell me that whatever Leif said isn’t right,” he says, leaning on the desk and looking down to meet her eyes. It doesn’t take more than a fraction of a second for Ingrid to stand up and look at him, both eyebrows raised. She knows exactly what he’s talking about, but this is a resistance she didn’t expect and now has to deal with.

“Father, what’s the meaning of…” he won’t let her finish that sentence.

“Ingrid! You can’t accept this! You can’t possibly have requested it! Why go to Enbarr when Charon, Fraldarius, Gautier are our allies! They have helped us before! Why would you go for help to the Adrestrians instead of people from your own land?”

Suddenly, Ingrid is once again a kid, she’s back in this very room but she’s the one at the other side of the desk, listening to how her father lists the reasons she must accept a husband to save her family and help them out of the hard times they have fallen in.

She is once again a naive kid that believes in chivalry knights and has a fiancee that’s kind and understanding and that she thinks she is in love with. Ingrid is again ten and there are things she can do to help her family and rules to follow.

The world hasn’t been watered by the blood of those who she loves, yet.

She blinks and she is back, her hands trembling, her breathing shallow, her jaw clenched. She looks in front of her and sees the former Count of Galatea screaming nonsense about honor and duty, pride and tradition. About things that are ethereal and can’t defend them against starvation or the seasons, that can’t fend off the waves of change and push them to a safer, brighter future.

Ingrid blinks and sees a man so anchored in the past that can’t comprehend what a different life could look like.

The wrath spires inside of her like a raging fire, a mountain that burns from the inside spilling lava and causing thunder, a volcano that disrupts even the wind that goes through it. A gray long night for what could’ve been a bright day.

“Father, I will ask of you to support my decision,” she mumbles, biting back the anger and the growl in her tone. She’s the Count, she has to be better.

She must.

The man steps back a couple of steps to look at her better, before pacing around the disorganized studio, avoiding the books that are scattered on the floor.

“Ingrid, this is pushing it too much. People won’t look at this kindly, you must understand that even if the King isn’t in Fhirdiad anymore, we’re still part of the Faerghus Kingdom,” he’s rambling now, and her wrath grows cold but still strong. Her determination is strong as steel once more as she sees him talking about things he doesn’t want to understand.

“People need to eat father, and food is the same either here or in Adrestria, we need the aid to go through winter without losing anybody,” she explains, tired of the conversation already. How can they even be talking about this? How when the future of the people is in the balance and not her marriage to some rich noble to save her house?

Nobles aren’t all powerful anymore and limits don’t carry the same meaning.

If she has to feed her people with fish for three months and make them hate her in the process, so be it. They will hate her because they will be alive to do so.

“I am well aware of our dire situation, but I’m sure Sylvain or Felix could have helped, maybe both of them...”

“Father,” she calls and he listens, for she is using the voice she has cultivated in the battlefield, the one that commands a battalion and has ended so many lives. “Gautier and Fraldarius are in a similar position, Faerghus as a whole has requested Adrestrian help, maybe if we weren't so disconnected and self-centered we could’ve actually coordinated our requests.” That's an idea, to coordinate the separated counties and states now that there’s no King to guide them.

“Still, maybe a different approach could’ve been taken! What are even the terms you agreed on?” He insists and she’s even more tired now. This is dragging, this is useless, this is a waste of time. Ingrid doesn’t have the energy to deal with it.

“It’s done, they will eat Adrestrian food and their stomachs will be filled the same as if it was the finest Galatean rabbit pie.” Ingrid rubs her face with her right hand, sighing and hopíng her father will finally take her answer. She didn’t ask for his counsel on this and she was right.

Maybe she shouldn’t even have mentioned it to her brother either.

“Ingrid, our people are warriors and they served the King proudly for generations before falling in hard times!” Arne steps forward, there’s a vein in his temple that Ingrid has seen it enough times already to know what it means.

She knows exactly what it means and it sparks a new wave of rage through her.

“They are farmers, father! Farmers that couldn’t harvest their land and will starve if we don’t do something about it!” Ingrid hits her desk with both hands, all the quills and ink bottles and documents clattering and falling by the strength of her muscles. Her eyes are dead serious in her father’s. “There’s no other option. It doesn’t matter if the bread they eat is baked with Adrestrian flour as long as they are alive. They can hate me for that for all I care but they will survive to tend their fields another year and then make all the pastries they want with products of the Galatean soil!” She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please understand, we can’t afford pride, old glories will not feed anybody...”

“Ingrid…” She doesn’t want to look at him. She’s heard enough, she’s done enough for him, she’s put herself through enough for him when he was the one in her position asking of a kid to take responsibilities that should have never been bestowed on a minor.

“Leave, now.” Ingrid sits down, Luin by her side, bags under her eyes and a serious countenance she usually doesn’t use for her family. Arne looks at her and his face changes, a spark of recognition in his eyes before he turns in his heels and goes out, closing the door softly behind him, so different as to how he stormed in just minutes ago.

Ingrid will not cry, she will not stand up and go looking for her sister to spar either.

She will remain there, looking at documents that are to save everybody and will ask herself if she is to ever be loved again.

Ingrid fears to find the real answer to it.

Her siblings will find her there, hours later, and will embrace her in a silence that speaks volumes and it’s unique to those who grew together under the sight of a man that didn’t and still doesn’t know of change and adaptability.

But now.

Now.

Ingrid is there alone, defeated, fearing for what’s to come.

* * *

The first snow of the year is early. It seems white and pure, a silent and calm clocke that will cover the land for months.

It’s deadly and merciless. It will decimate them one by one if they are naive enough to defy it. Ingrid sees the flake in her fist and feels the cold burn through her gloves. The weight of her armor is a comfortable burden to carry, known and familiar. Her grasp in Luin is firm but tender.

The letter she couldn’t read before leaving the manor rests next to her heart, warm.

The battlefield awaits and she knows it. Ingrid knows it now as if it was second nature to her.

She uses her knee to steer Freya and her mount circles around, her battalion following close by. Soon, as they lose altitude and ride the harder, fickle winds in the surface, they’ll see the open field and the fork in the roads that serve as separation between Charon, Galatea and Fraldarius.

Felix has called for her, and she is to answer, for her strength is to protect and defend those who she loves and fend off those who threaten them.

Bandits.

It is bound to happen, for soldiers that took a taste for blood to be out there, for desperate people that don’t know how to get out of their bad situation to be out there. For chaos to be there as the pieces slowly accommodate back into the new order. The wind whistles in their ears and trying to shout commands would be senseless, even the flags and banners they use for commands would be difficult to read in these conditions. Instead Ingrid stands up in her stirrups and coaxes Freya to dive nose first to the ground, plunging a hundred meters at least as they gain speed and the shapes underneath gain depth and limits.

She, however, hears them before quite seeing them.

They are late.

Ingrid clenches her jaw and mutters a curse, instead of the controlled stop and landing she had planned. Ingrid urges Freya and her pegasus answers, her wings completely folded like a dart in the sky as they pick up more speed and fall to the ground in a risky maneuver others would have never attempted. She will have less than a second to raise Luin and join the fight. They will rain on them as thunder and steel, aiding their comrades and lashing on their enemies like demons and beasts.

Time is slow when she plunges to the earth, it always is.

Even slower now.

She can see the soldiers that sport the Fraldarius sigil, she can see Felix cutting through enemies as water, each movement linked in an endless succession that make them seem as one. She hears the slitting of steel and the sharp end of weapons ending what has been blooming for years and years.

Ingrid braces herself and pulls the reins, Freya extends her wings and their stop at once, mere meters above the fight. Her bones rattle, her armor clangs and bruises her, her body is hit by the sheer force of the air around them, of the sky that has taught them how to be fearless by pushing them to the very limit.

By telling them only their own wings can keep them up near the clouds.

Behind her the battalion has followed her example and their weapons join the song that nobody speaks but they all sing.

Freya, one with her rider, dodges an arrow and darts over the bandits at the right speed for Luin to open a path. For Luin to sing and to silence the voices of those who couldn’t join their chorus anymore.

The roar that is born from her chest vibrates through a battlefield where the snow is stained red before it reaches the earth. Ingrid leads her battalion with expertise, she’s a soldier of a hundred battles at least and even in the mad rushing she did to get there once she recognized Felix in battle, she knows exactly how to pincer their enemy leaving just a single exit route, enough for the bandits to run when they are overwhelmed by their military power.

Yet, they are desperate people. They are dangerous and they don’t value their lives as to do anything else but to put them in line in this fight they have no hope of winning. Ingrid doesn’t recognize these people, she hasn’t seen their faces before, she will not know their names and yet she will lay them to rest when her blade goes through their flesh in the last second they are to be in a world that has never been kind to them.

To any of them.

Freya picks up altitude once more following her commands and, in a quick turn and a stunt that would have made other rider fall down from the saddle, Ingrid releases the destructive power of her crest and her weapon, the old combat art known as Burning Quake swiping enemies and inflicting a blow so devastating that the bandits start to retreat. Her pegasus follows the movement of her lance through, feeling every movement of her rider as its own. Ingrid is next to Felix just as she has planned, and the bandits are retreating while her battalion ends up the slowest ones.

They have made quick work of them with no major losses, she believes.

Ingrid sees how her riders come back, following her orders to not chase them down and give themselves to a possible disadvantage situation, from her position on top of her saddle her panting can’t hide her frown.

This won’t do. There’s something that sits wrong in her belly when sees the bandits and the poor equipment they were using to fight against fully armed and trained troops. There’s something that bothers her from it but she can’t still name it.

Not yet at least.

“You’re late,” Felix mumbles, his panting as pronounced as hers, but a curt smile on his face. Ingrid can’t help but smile at him, hoping down her mount to greet him with a strong handshake that turns into half a hug. Ingrid decides not to think how strange this is for him and enjoys the hug of this man she calls her friend.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have it in mind next time,” she jokes when he lets her go, chuckling before sobering up and looking around, assessing the aftermath. “Is there anybody that needs healing or assistance? My battalion went by unscattered.”

“No, not really. These people didn’t know how to hold a sword. If I had known I wouldn’t have called for you,” Felix doesn’t say more, looking to the corpses that are starting to be covered by snow around them, the people they will never truly know but they killed nonetheless. “Let’s clean this up and set up camp, we can go tomorrow to Fraldarius first thing in the morning.” 

“Black Eagle riders, you have your orders,” Ingrid says to the pegasus riders that have gathered around her. The movement is immediate, as they start picking up bodies to dispose of them. She starts moving as well, taking the reins of Freya and whistling to the other pegasus whose riders are busy with other tasks to take care of them. She enjoys the task, regardless of how grim the scenery can be.

Ingrid will make sure that nothing is missing for the winged animals. Felix shakes his head before starting helping as well. They are short of people, no house in the Kingdom is in a position to spend money freely or spend money at all.

No mercenaries can help with this.

On the day the first snow falls, the Count of Galatea and the Duke Fraldarius help their soldiers to clean up the blood they have spilled from people too desperate to know anything better.

* * *

Despite their precarious situation, Fraldarius is still a big house and their power can be perceived by just looking at the Dukedom of Fraldarius and the citadel around it. Ingrid has seen it many times before, she used to come often when she was engaged to Glenn. Her memories of those days are stained blue and yellow, by happiness and sadness, by the heavy knowledge of knowing she can’t turn back to those days when she was naive and she was less free but less aware.

She accepts the cup of tea a maiden offers her and sees how Felix drinks from his cup with a pensive look and a slight frown. She knows him enough to know that his expression is almost constant by now. He’s worried, as all of them are. She’s wearing a shirt with a mandarin collar and the Adrestrian and Galatean emblems. She is the Count and she needs to show it, even at her friend’s house.

In the inner pocket of her shirt the letter still is there, waiting for her, tainting her to break protocol and read it with no regard of what could come.

Mercedes’s last letter had been a strong punch and she isn’t sure how she’ll take the next one. Ingrid would rather be alone to read it and digest it, just enough time for her to let it stir her feelings and then grab a hold on them after the tides of her heart crush her for a night. Ingrid knows herself well enough to know she needs to go through it alone before facing the world once more.

“Charon is a mess and I think they like it that way,” Felix says out of the blue, his brown eyes still in the fireplace where flames keep the cold at bay. “They aren’t making it easy to keep the trade roads open for the merchants that come from the north.”

“Do you think they are doing it on purpose?” Ingrid isn’t surprised. Charon has never been an easy house to deal with. Her scars hurt remembering it.

They have always been strong and decisive.

She isn’t looking forward to parleying with them.

“Who knows, I just know that I have more complaints from those borders than anywhere else…” He leaves the cup on a table and starts pacing around the room. Felix seems uncomfortable each time he can’t cut through a situation with his blade, but he’s trying and that alone surprises Ingrid. She never thought he would accept the title bestowed upon him by Edelgard, yet there they are, two warriors that now try to be politics.

She would laugh if she wasn’t worried enough.

Her tea is hot, but fragrant and it comforts her.

Her battalion is on the way back already, they are to rest before the food aid arrives and their reach goes through all Galatea delivering boxes of foreing food that is to keep everybody alive.

Ingrid can spend a day more in Fraldarius, she is a guest of the Duke and refusing could be considered rude. She is looking forward to sparring with him before leaving, something to take her mind out of all the problems and stress that has been on her shoulders lately. 

“Ingrid, you should look better in Galatea, there are enough mountains in there for your people to find ore alright, I’d prefer to buy from you than from Charon in any case. At least I know you will deal with bandits on your own,” he snorts. It’s not the first time Ingrid has thought of it. There are no registers of minerals in the Oghma mountains in Galatea, but she knows that’s been decades since the last time somebody tried to look for it.

Her grasp in her cup is strong enough that she needs to force herself to let go of it before she breaks it.

If that were to be true…

If that were to be true, so many of her problems could be solved.

“Those bandits were barely an organized group, I fear this will be a problem later...” She muses, standing up to walk up to him. He shrugs, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Winter will kill them one by one, you know how difficult it’s to survive out there without preparation or a proper house.” 

“Still…”

“Duke Fraldarius, you have visitors,” a retainer announces, appearing through the double door that leads to the hall they have been talking in. Felix turns, scowling just for a second before his expression softens once more. Ingrid sees his smile and knows that means only one thing.

Or one person.

Her heart hammers in her chest when she turns as well and sees Sylvain, his wide frame, his easy smile, his hair never to be tamed and, behind him, Mercedes looking as surprised as Ingrid is.

Mercedes.

Mercedes and her blue eyes, her soft features, the tender curvature of her shoulders, the fair line of her breasts and the magical line of her waist. Mercedes and her eyes that used to be a riddle for her and now are books that seem willing to be read. Mercedes that smiles and doubts and yet walks toward them. Mercedes that still wears her gowns that were considered holy before, Mercedes whose hands are scarred but take hers nonetheless and they are once more warm.

Mercedes is there and Ingrid is lost just by seeing her.

She shakes her hands and smiles, somehow, the letter in her chest burning her skin and her mind running circles to find the right words when she isn’t sure what was the last thing Mercedes said to her.

“You’re awfully late, Sylvain, Mercedes.” Felix crosses his arms and shakes his head, Mercedes smiles at him and hugs him after letting Ingrid go so Sylvain can engulf her in a rib crushing hug.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, we had our own problems getting here,” Sylvain jokes, mussing Ingrid’s hair before letting go of her to pat Felix’s shoulders. “But I am sure happy to find you both!” He is beaming, opening his arms as if he could engulf them all at once.

Ingrid thinks he can if he tries.

She looks at Mercedes and tries to smile, she knows she doesn’t quite make it, but at least the tug in her lips must send the right message to the woman.

“I’m glad to see you better,” and it’s true. Mercedes looks as her strength is back, her movements confident and the bags under her eyes gone. 

“I say the same… White and blue looks good on you,” Ingrid blushes slightly, but takes the compliment in her stride. She knows she doesn’t look good, she’s tired and she’s worried. Her body has taken a toll and it shows. Ingrid looks at them, at the three of the Blue Lions that are still there with her and smiles, warmth filling her chest and giving wind to her wings, strength once more to her resolution.

“I should be going, there are so many things to deal with back at home…” Felix looks at her, cocking an eyebrow but keeping his comments to himself, his brown eyes go to Mercedes just for a second and she knows he understands.

“What? Ingrid, we just arrived!” Sylvain turns to look at her, a pout in his lips.

“Don’t be a cry baby, Sylvain, we’ll see each other soon enough! I will need to discuss with you some of these old treaties that make no sense to me and I’m sure nobody even remembers they exist,” she jokes and hugs him, using her strength to tear away from him, his comfort, his friendship and bowing at them before taking her leave.

Ingrid sees in Mercedes’s eyes many things she wants to say. She will listen to them later.

Later.

When her responsibilities are fulfilled and she understands a bit better what her role is and what’s the direction her life should strive toward.

There are no goodbyes between them, as farewells don’t really mean anything for them, those who have been apart for many years without the need for them and those who life and fate have decided to keep together, their lines intertwined in a pattern that neither of them can comprehend or tell apart.

Freya has been waiting for her, well fed and tended to. Saddling her back is easy, a task she has done countless times before, so much Ingrid could do it with her eyes closed. They are to close the sky and go back home.

They are to fly with no restrictions and no borders as they make that day and night their own.

Ingrid has seen Mercedes, and her letter burns her skin and her words are carved in her heart. She is smiling when she bids the pages in the stables farewell. She is smiling despite the snow and the cold that cuts through her gloves and numbs her skin.

She’s seen Mercedes and she’s got enough help to feed her people through winter.

Maybe, just maybe, she can be what she needs to be to support the ones she loves.

The night is clear, cold, and open and Freya’s wings cut through the sky easily. Ingrid doesn’t usually fly at night when it’s hard to spot the enemy underneath and easy to be seen, the white a bright contrast against the purple sky and stars. Not today, however. Today Ingrid wishes to go back, Ingrid wishes to return home and read the letters she keeps by her bed, the ones that remind her that there is something still so close to her heart to be discovered that she could battle through war again just to understand it and figure it out.

She wishes to return, for she has seen Mercedes, a brief moment, an afternoon alongside her friends, and time has reverted itself, mischievous in its nature, and has granted them a single afternoon where she has seen Mercedes smile once more.

Maybe not at her, but smile once more.

Where she has seen Felix enjoy a day without a sword in his fingers and Sylvain making peace with his demons.

Where she has seen hope slowly building up, telling her that it's alright.

That it will be alright.

They can make it.

Freya’s wings move powerfully and purposefully, sensing the urgency of her rider, sensing how close they are from home.

Galatea manor, small and resilient, is the stage from where Ingrid will ensure the best for her people, the best for her county, the best for herself.

It’s where Ingrid will reach for Mercedes when the time is right and both have healed the wounds love and hate have cast upon them.

The wind, cold, strong, unforgiving, makes her feel alive. The wind that stings and bites and buzzes in her ear as it lodges deep in her shoulder like a silver arrow that looked for her heart and found her joint instead. Ingrid blinks and looks at her left shoulder.

There’s an arrow there, deep in her flesh and the loud, irrational cry of pain is a flame that’s born from the wound and razes as a forest fire that will consume her strength to the last piece before it takes her out as the warrior she is and she has forgotten she is for just a second. Her hands, so sure and strong, let go of the reins for a second and her body tilts to the left, sliding off the saddle and plunging to the black earth underneath her.

She is so close home.

She is so close home.

Why isn’t she home yet?

Maybe, for a second, Ingrid has forgotten that the sky is her home as well.

The terrifying and chilling cry of a pegasus that realized too late her rider and lifelong friend has fallen closes the night, suddenly too cold, too bright, too silent.


End file.
